


Stuck in Traffic

by okapi



Series: The Fucking Machine 'verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Omega, Established Relationship, Feels, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation with Toy, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Omega Greg Lestrade, Omega John Watson, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 05:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18732874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Lestrade goes into heat unexpectedly and decides to try out one of Sherlock's inventions.Omegaverse. The Fucking Machine 'verse. Masturbation with device. Mystrade (with a tiny bit of Johnlock). Fluffy crack.





	Stuck in Traffic

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation challenge - Day 6.

John opened the bathroom door. Sherlock pounced.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

John strode down the hallway towards the sitting room. Sherlock followed close behind.

“What were you talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“John.”

“I won’t betray a confidence.”

“You’re worried.”

“Mildly.”

“Why?”

“If you’re not worried _these_ days, you’re not paying attention.”

“John.”

John sniffed, noting the sharp uptick in Alpha pheromones. He bristled.

“Don’t you even try to snuff it out of me, Sherlock!”

“As if I could.”

John kept his back to Sherlock. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s probably already resolving itself. This very minute, it’s resolving itself. No big deal. Everything’s under control. Nothing to worry about.” He looked down at his mobile.

“How can I help?”

John turned abruptly. He shrugged.

But then, with two steps, he had closed the distance between them and thrown himself into Sherlock’s open arms.

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Sherlock gently. “If the Omega’s worried, the Alpha’s worried. That’s it.” He tugged John’s jumper and vest aside and gave the skin covering John’s unbroken scent gland a reassuring lick. When John’s knees buckled, he gave it another one and held John tighter.

“Please, John.”

“You’ll say it’s nothing.”

“Give me some credit. You don’t usually worry about nothing.”

“It’s our Stamford bond. You can smell my anxiety. How do I smell right now?”

“Like sour milk.”

John rubbed his face with his hand and sighed again.

“Oh, all right. Maybe you can help. How’s traffic?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. His gaze flitted to the wall behind John, and he cocked his head to one side in contemplation.

“I don’t know, but I can find out.”

* * *

“That’s not good. That’s really not good.”

“Especially if you happen to be here anywhere along here.” Sherlock indicated an angry red line on the screen. “Caught between two stupendous accidents, all detours blocked. No one’s going anywhere for a while.”

As John stared at the screen, he felt the heat of Sherlock’s scrutiny followed by the sweetest brush Sherlock’s lips at his temple.

“Who’s in traffic, John?” asked Sherlock softly.

John closed his eyes. “Your brother.”

“And where’s Lestrade?”

“Home.”

“He’s gone into heat, hasn’t he? And he hasn’t told Mycroft.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you guessed that.”

“I never guess, John.”

“Whatever. But yes and yes. Lestrade thinks he can handle it until Mycroft gets there.”

“John. Lestrade is a very good detective…”

“I know.”

“But he can, at certain moments, be a very dangerous Omega. To himself and others. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

“I know that, too. And now he’s locked himself in the wine cellar with a scimitar and _your_ fucking machine.”

* * *

Lestrade congratulated himself on getting the bloody thing out of the box.

He was kneeling, looking from the contraption, which was carefully positioned between two racks of antique vintage, to the instruction manual, spread before him on the cool floor.

He rubbed his chin and nodded.

“Sherlock built it. And John tested it, all three prototypes, so it’s safe. It works,” he reassured himself. “I just need a bit of time. An hour at most. That’s all. No need to worry. Everything’s under control.”

Given the flat’s security system, the depth of the cellar, and the strength of the walls and door, it was highly unlikely that anyone would bother Lestrade, but if an Alpha who was not Mycroft Holmes happened to catch a whiff of an unbonded Omega in heat and decided to follow the scent and take advantage of the situation, well, Lestrade had something that would make them rethink their decision quickly.

And, really, the selection of weapons at Mycroft’s was an embarrassment of riches. It could’ve been the crossbow, but at the last moment, Lestrade reconsidered. He wasn’t certain what the heat would do to his aim, but with this bad boy, he glanced at the long, curved sword on the ground beside him, he was bound to hit something.

Like a big, fat, bastard Alpha prick.

Lestrade flipped to the second page of the instruction manual just as a thick layer of perspiration broke out all over his body.

“Ah, look here, ‘emergency start-up.’ I think that’s exactly what the doctor ordered.”

* * *

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Mister Holmes.”

“Not your fault, Georges,” said Mycroft evenly. “Luckily, I’m on holiday. Or at least I will be as soon as I get home.”

Mycroft was very much looking forward to ten days at the little cottage: a few days to relax, a few days to tend to his Omega’s heat, and a few days more to relax. And all of it very far from work and the city and its maddening crowd.

And its maddening traffic.

He sighed contentedly.

Even this horrendous jam (and, despite Sherlock’s claims, this congestion had nothing to do with Mycroft) couldn’t dampen Mycroft’s mood. Oh, he was certainly taking advantage of the delay and continuing to work, but each task completed was a bonus as well as a much-needed distraction from his growing impatience.

He was debating the pros and cons of getting out and walking when Georges asked,

“Were you expecting young Master Sherlock, Mister Holmes?”

Mycroft was always pettily pleased when his chauffeur, wholly unbidden, spoke of Sherlock as if he were still in short trousers.

“What do you mean ‘expecting him,’ Georges?”

“Isn’t that him over there, sir, dangling by the rope from the helicopter?”

Mycroft looked out the window. “Oh, dear God.”

“I believe he’s waving at you, sir.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, the colour draining from his face. “I am going to have to step out of the car, Georges.”

“As you wish, sir. We aren’t going anywhere.”

* * *

Lestrade was proud of himself.

He knew he was a good copper. He knew he was a decent friend and an upright citizen and an acceptable boyfriend.

But he’d always considered himself a rather incompetent, if not to say defective, Omega.

But he’d been wrong.

Or, perhaps, he’d changed, for he was, he thought, handling the unexpected onset of this heat rather well.

He was on hands and knees, beside him was his mobile, a scimitar, and the remote control for the machine (Lestrade refused to call it by its official name of The Fucking Machine’s Fucking Machine. Sherlock could go sod himself.)

Lestrade would be fine until Mycroft arrived. And he’d been right in his decision not to worry Mycroft about it. He’d seen the reports of the traffic accidents, and there wasn’t much to be done but wait.

But some things, of course, wouldn’t wait. Like heats.

But Lestrade was handling it.

He was forced to admit, however, that he wouldn’t be handling it half as well if it weren’t for the fucking machine.

The machine was, in a word, extraordinary.

First, there was the aromatic setting. Lestrade wasn’t altogether certain that the chemical cloud he was inhaling was genuine pheromones. It smelled like Alpha, not a specific Alpha, but a curiously generic Alpha. Nevertheless, whatever it was had calmed the worst of his itching and had cleared his head enough so that he could see about calibrating the Thrust of the Matter (John had obviously named _that_ part).

Lestrade had selected a dildo from the assortment attached to the machine and screwed it into place at the end of a mechanical arm. Then, per instructions, he’d angled it just so, locked it into place, and lowered himself on it.

He exhaled a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t Mycroft, but it was bloody wonderful to be filled.

Lestrade clenched around the dildo then hummed with satisfaction.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

He lifted himself up, then sank back down. Good. Then he repeated the act. He wouldn’t be able to do it for long, the Omega would demand a much swifter pace than the aging copper’s thighs could maintain, but the motion, and the sensations produced, did confirm that the cock was the right one.

Big, but not as big as Mycroft. Some ridges, but not a porcupine.

But after a while, Lestrade’s body was clamouring for more, and so, with a trembling index finger, he tapped the remote control.

Then, slowly and carefully, through trial and error, Lestrade was able to bring the fucking machine to fucking life and put himself at ease.

* * *

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” muttered Mycroft as he held his mobile to his ear. Sherlock was seated beside him in the backseat, his head tilted toward Mycroft’s mobile. John was driving.

“ _My_.”

“I’m less than five minutes away, Gregory.”

“ _Good_.”

“And Sherlock has made me aware of your situation, that is, your condition.”

“ _Damn John Watson and his big mouth!_ ”

“Tell him ‘sorry not sorry,’” mumbled John.

“No, it was the right decision, Gregory,” said Mycroft gently. “Sherlock and John got me out of traffic and now we’re on our way, most expeditiously, thanks to Doctor Watson’s driving. But that’s all conversation for a later time. The most important thing is: are you all right?”

“ _I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m handling it_.”

“Ask him about the machine,” whispered Sherlock. “Ask him if he’s tried any of the advanced functions or downloaded the app—?”

“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock!” hissed Mycroft, covering the speaker with his hand. Then he turned back to the phone. “Talk to me, Gregory. I want to hear you. I need to hear you.” He pushed Sherlock’s head away. “How’s the device?”

“Tell ‘im how good it is, Lestrade!” called Sherlock. “The Fucking Machine’s Fucking Machine is the next best thing to the Fucking Machine!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“ _It’s good, My. You can, uh, warm the cock up. Or cool it down. And you can adjust the ridges and the angle and the speed, of course. I’ve got it going nice and steady. And you can make it grow inside you. That’s kind of fun. And twist like a corkscrew. I’m not a fan of that. My hand’s slicked and wrapped ‘round my cock. I’ve come, uh, let’s see twice, I think. I could easily do it right now. You want me to come for you? You want to hear it?”_

“Yes. Desperately.”

“ _Don’t be angry, My. I didn’t want to worry you. And I wanted you to be proud me, you know, not just me, but the Omega, too. I want you here, of course, it’s no substitute,”_ Mycroft’s expression softened _, “but I want you to know you can trust me to manage without you for a while. I know I can be a rotten Omega and I know couldn’t do this for the whole heat, but, right now, everything’s under control, yeah?_ ”

Mycroft nodded, then he swallowed and said, “I am very proud of my Omega, my _good_ Omega, at all times, but especially this one. Really, I couldn’t be prouder. And I trust you, Gregory, I do. I just want to be there.”

“ _Oh, God, My, I’m too raw. You’re going to make me cry_ —”

“Me, too,” said John with a sniff. “Okay, we’re here. Go!”

“Finally!” Mycroft sprang from the vehicle.

“Tell Lestrade that he owes me a five-star review for the web site!” cried Sherlock just before the car door slammed.

* * *

“Gregory!”

“Mycroft!”

Oxfords hurrying down stairs. The buckle of a belt jangling.

Lestrade tapped the remote control and crawled forward, carefully un-impaling himself.

“Don’t wait, love, just go for it,” he urged.

As Mycroft’s arms enveloped him, Lestrade breathed in the rich Alpha fragrance.

“I’ve said it a thousand times, but you smell wonderful.”

“The sentiment is a shared one, Gregory. I doubt that you can truly imagine how your scent affects me.” Mycroft pressed his lips to Lestrade’s cheek and quickly laid Lestrade on his back on the cool floor. “I am besotted.”

Lestrade spread his legs and lifted his hips.

Without any hesitation, Mycroft slid his massive cock into the gaping cunt and began to thrust.

Lestrade’s body and mind welcomed the invasion.

“That’s my Alpha,” he said with a chuckle as he gazed at the ceiling, “talks like a Jane Austen novel and fucks like a porn star.”

Mycroft slowed his thrusting, bent low, and kissed Lestrade. His lips lingered for a moment, brushing, caressing. “That’s my Omega,” he whispered, “the best kind of sheriff when he isn’t the best kind of saloon whore.”

Lestrade laughed, then groaned, “Oh, fuck me, My.” He slid his hands beneath trousers and pants to grip Mycroft’s arse. “It won’t take long.”

“No, it won’t,” agreed Mycroft. He resumed his thrusting, hard and fast and deep, and came without a sound.

As soon as he was spent, Mycroft pulled out and kissed down Lestrade’s torso. He licked Lestrade’s stiff cock before dipping a bit lower and asking,

“You didn’t mention this to my rival for your affections, did you?” Mycroft covered the tender nub with his mouth, warming it with the heat of his breath.

Lestrade cackled. “No, in all the excitement, you know, I completely forgot to tell that clever tin can with the knob that I’ve got a clit!”

“Then I’ve still got one advantage.” Mycroft teased the spot gently with the tip of his tongue.

Lestrade’s body jerked. “Oh, God, My. The whole tongue, nice and flat, just lay it on, like a wide blanket. Don’t move it. Just hold it there, still and warm.

“Like this?”

Mycroft obliged.

“Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!”

Lestrade’s hand went to his cock. Mycroft batted it away, replacing it with his own.

“Full service, Gregory. Just like the fucking machine.”

It was the last thing Lestrade heard for a while.

* * *

“I wasn’t going to hurt myself with the sword, Mycroft. It was just for protection. Just in case.”

“I know. It was a good choice.”

They were still on the floor of the wine cellar, curled ‘round each other, kissing, petting.

“I’m not crazy, My—”

Mycroft shivered as he always did when Gregory’s anxiety flared. He quickly hastened to reassure. “Of course not! I’ve never once thought—”

“Let me finish, you horse-hung prig!”

The hard yank almost brought tears to Mycroft’s eyes and he felt properly, and deliciously, chastened.

“I’m not crazy right now. I will be. You know that. I know that. But, when it’s all over, when we’re on holiday at the cottage, let’s, well, let’s talk about, you know…”

He gave Mycroft a shy kiss on the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

Mycroft dared not finish the statement. “Talk about what exactly, Gregory?”

Lestrade sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “This business, with the machine, has got me thinking that I don’t want to spend my heats with anyone or anything else but you, and I’m not, at my age, especially wild about surprises, this kind of surprise, at any rate. Now I know I can handle it, but I don’t really want to. And at the risk of putting Stamford off his research…”

“I think you underestimate the terrier-like tenacity of the academic, Gregory, but pray continue.”

“…maybe we could think about bonding the old-fashioned way. It’s supposed to…”

“…decrease the frequency and irregularity of heats,” supplied Mycroft, trying to keep his voice even as his heart, he felt certain, was about to explode. “Yes, let’s discuss it. But I agree such a discussion is best conducted with sober minds,” he glanced left and right, “and far from the reach of weapons and the shadow of machines.”

Mycroft felt vibrations of Gregory’s laughter as he looked over at the hulking contraption and, for the first time in his life, was grateful for his brother’s perverted ingenuity.

* * *

“God, Sherlock, you were so good!”

John couldn’t wait. He’d slammed Sherlock against the front door.

Sherlock hummed as John peppered kisses all over his face.

“You saved the fucking day like a bad-ass and it’s just possible that you saved two lives in the process.”

“Probable,” corrected Sherlock smugly.

“You know what I want to do?” asked John in a husky whisper.

“I have an idea,” replied Sherlock, grinning.

“Let’s test out that new thing of yours.”

Sherlock’s face lit with surprise. “The swing? ‘ _The crotch rocket that’ll have you seeing stars!_ ’”

“Yeah, that one,” said John, laughing as Sherlock raced toward the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
